The Woodlands (13 page)

As my head cleared, memories assaulted me one by one. Joseph, warmth and love that turned twisted and hard, Rash and the boys, something to live for, a purpose, and a new family. It hurt so much. It was a real, physical pain. I breathed long and slow, trying to calm myself. I made a decision. At this moment, in this already overwhelming and frightening situation, I would push it down. I couldn’t acknowledge this pain, this loss, not without falling apart. It would have to wait.

It would have to wait because t
hat morning one thing became very apparent and, all of a sudden, glaringly obvious. I stared down at my round belly and sighed thinly with absolute exhaustion. I was pregnant, probably about four or five months. Looking back over the foggy days, it made a lot more sense. How starving-hungry I was, how uncoordinated and unbalanced I felt, and the way I was being treated by the staff. What I couldn’t understand or remember was how I came to be this way.

I
’d tried to hide it the first time I remembered being taken to the exercise yard, but I couldn’t help a sharp suck of breath in shock. It was difficult not to reel backwards, turn to the door, and run. There, padding their socked feet over the fake grass, the projected trees not swaying in the wind, the birds frozen on the branches, were at least a hundred girls walking around the yard. All at different stages, but most were quite obviously pregnant. They were all being ushered into different circuits that were roped off with nylon tape and were mindlessly walking through them. They would bang into each other occasionally, unaware of their swollen stomachs bouncing into each other’s backs. There was no sound apart from the soft swishing of padded feet on the fake grass. I looked up at the bright blue sky decorated with puffy white clouds projected on the ceiling and wished it were real. This was nightmarish.

The kinder blonde woman, whom I
’d learned was named Apella, guided me to an opening in the chattel and gently pushed me through. I walked with my eyes set on the ground, trying not to attract any attention. I felt like a spy—the only one aware of what had happened to us.

After a week of the same
routine, I realized Apella was always putting me behind the same girl in the yard. She had short, black springy hair and a downcast posture. Her hands looked raw, like she had been nervously scratching them. Once she tripped and I heard her whisper, “Whoops”. No one ever spoke in these lines—no one really noticed they
were
in a line.

I watched her
carefully. She always kept her head down, but every now and then I saw her head dash from side to side, taking in the surroundings as I had been doing. Counting the number of guards, ten, looking at the exits, only one. The other thing I noticed was she would occasionally rub her belly. It didn’t appear to be by accident, it was affectionately, comfortingly. I decided she must be at least slightly aware, as I was, and decided I had to speak with her.

Back in my room, I tried to think of some way I could make this happen and came up with nothing. I could bang into her in the yard, but with the total silence how could I speak without being noticed? I could give her a note, but I had nothing to write with and no paper. It seemed hopeless
—whatever was going to happen would happen. I had no control. I pushed the wheeled table away from me in frustration, quickly retrieving it, hoping no one had heard the noise. That was the first night I spent crying myself to sleep. I lost count of how many nights I let myself be this way. I was a pathetic creature with no hope and no faith.

Then
I felt it. At night, after much sobbing, it moved inside me. A tiny kick, a snare on the inside of me. I felt ill. Poisoned. It had moved into my body without permission, without me knowing. I wished I could cut it out, be rid of it. Whatever this thing was, I didn’t want it. I wanted my life back. I resented sharing my body with this parasite. I resolved I would hold out long enough to get it out. I would find a way to be me again.

The days started to blur. I got bigger and bigger. The routine never changed. The girl in front of me never turned around and I never spoke to her. I felt lost and so very alone. I decided I should make a run for it, but I didn
’t even know where we were or how far underground.

Then
one day it was not Apella that led me to exercise, it was some other woman. A much older, less gentle woman, who shoved me into the line with her cracked, weathered hands, scratched and gnarled like a tree branch. I was nowhere near the springy-haired girl. I scraped my feet along the fake grass for forty-five minutes or an hour, I don’t know how long, and then tree lady pulled me out of the line and shoved me back to my room.

I walked through the doors a
nd thought she must have led me to the wrong room. It was completely different. The woman roughly led me to my bed and sat me down, chucking my legs up and raising the rail, like she was handling a sack of grain. I tried not to look around too much, but it was difficult. When she left, I let my eyes wander over the new pictures. The photos had been changed, a lot. On one side was a condensed version of my room. On the other side was a different scene. It was darker and dirtier than my side, but it had more ornaments. All handmade. Exquisite little dolls made of sticks and colorful cloth, sitting on dark, wooden shelves amongst glass jars full of buttons, ribbons, and shards of glass. I couldn’t help myself. I had to look closer. I left my bed and approached. Thankfully, a few days after the falling ‘incident’, they had disconnected me from the machines so I was free to move around my room. Each doll had its own personality. I reached out to touch them, my hands shaky. They looked so real. One little doll had dark, springy hair and beautiful, ebony skin. Her dress was detailed with tiny glass shards, each sewn on in a swirly pattern like the dance of a wind that had blown past a tree and picked up all the leaves. I sighed. I missed the trees. The silky purple color of her dress was deep and foreign. We didn’t have such colors in Pau. The face of the doll was painted on in such detail. The kindness of her face was unmistakable. Whoever made these was very talented. A lot of love had gone into these toys. I stepped back, feeling like I was intruding into someone’s very personal sanctuary. I heard the door creaking and quickly climbed back into the bed, to resume staring at the wall, when they wheeled her in.

I was to share a room. The girl
’s stomach was much bigger than mine—perhaps she only had a few weeks left. I had memorized the back of her head so well that it was strange to see her face. It was not at all what I had pictured. I imagined a strong face, the face of someone older and wiser than me. Someone who could help me. What greeted me was the face of a child. She couldn’t be more than fourteen. She was beautiful: smooth, perfect ebony skin, and kind, dark eyes that looked completely unlike mine. They were full of hope—this was not the face of someone who had given up. She looked almost happy. Her face mirrored the doll’s, only younger.

I heard the staff talking to each other
. “I don’t know what they are thinking, ordering more. We are crowded here as it is,” one woman said.

“
I know, now there is only one of us to ten of them. I don’t know how we are going to manage it,” someone whined.

“
And with the exercises and the room changes, I’ve barely slept in days.”

“
A happy mother equals a healthy baby. Right?” I heard laughing.

“
Well, what choice do we have? What Este wants, Este gets,” the other voice replied in a sigh.

Este. That meant we were probably near Bagassa. Superior Este had a reputation as a formidable woman, harsh and brilliant. Her assignment was the Sciences.
We were part of one her experiments. I wondered what this girl had done to end up here. I knew what my crime was.

I could hear them complaining as they walked down the hall, until they passed someone who shushed them. Then the woman with the harsh voice stormed into the room. Apella was right behind her.

“Apella, can you connect, er, um...” She lifted the young girl’s arm up to a portable scanning device, which responded in its monotone, “Clara Winterbell.”

“
Err, Clara, yes, can you connect Clara to the monitors and organize her dinner?” She crinkled her face, her straight, grey hair looking messy. Bits of it had fallen out of her tight bun and were floating wispily in front of her eyes.

Harsh Voice seemed stressed and distracted. She wiped her forehead, attempting to push back the stray hairs. Every other time I had seen her, she was businesslike, efficient and disconnected. Whatever had
happened, she was obviously frazzled by it. Apella, on the other hand, who was normally nervous by comparison, was calm and seemed almost pleased. She hooked Clara up to the various machines and monitors, tucked the dopey girl into bed, and walked out. As she passed through the door, she turned and I think she smiled at us. The door shut and we were alone.